One comfort yet, I have none else beside.
For me there's naught to dissipate my grief;
In all surrounding me it hath a tongue;
The holy temple vaults speak but of thee:
The temple's God, which should all threatening seem,
Thy likeness takes when shines the streaming moon.
Behold the sea--there swam thy keel through foam
To her who on the strand awaited thee;
Behold the woods--there stand so many stems
With Ing'borg's runes engraven in the bark;
Now grows the bark and wears away my name,
And that betokens death, the sagas say.
I ask the day when last it saw thy form,
I ask the night, but both are silent still:
And e'en the sea which bears thee, gives reply
But with a solemn sigh along the shore.
With evening's ruddy glow I'll send to thee
A greeting, when it sinks into thy waves.
And heaven's long ship, the fleeting cloud, shall take
On board the wail of the abandoned one.
So shall I sit within my virgin bower,
In mourning clad, of all life's joy bereft,
And broken lilies sew into the cloth,
Until the Spring its cloth doth weave, and sew
It full of better lilies on my grave.
And when I sadly take the harp to sing
Unending sorrow in profoundest tones,
Then burst the burning tears as now--

Fridthjof.